


Copilots with Benefits

by Lbilover



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2016-12-03
Packaged: 2018-09-06 07:25:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8740312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lbilover/pseuds/Lbilover
Summary: Martin thinks he has the situation with Douglas under control. He's wrong.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the following prompt: _Sometimes, when they're staying overnight in a hotel and there's been a code given out between them earlier, Martin will quietly come to Douglas' room or vice versa, and they will fuck - rough and ready and desperate - and then, they'll go their separate ways and carry on as if nothing happened._
> 
> _Throughout the whole encounter, neither of them even says a single word to one another._

"Post shutdown checks complete," Martin says, and Gerti settles into silence. Even after so many flights, he finds the absence of sound shocking. The silence lingers; carefully not looking at Douglas, he fiddles unnecessarily with a control switch and waits.

Douglas clears his throat. Martin's fingers go still. "Well, last one to the hotel is a rotten egg, Captain," his copilot says. Carefully not looking at Martin, Douglas unfastens his harness, gets up, gathers his belongings and exits the flight deck without another word.

_Last one to the hotel is a rotten egg, Captain._ Innocuous enough words on the surface, but they act on Martin like a shot of adrenaline - or a dose of Viagra. He tilts his head back, closes his eyes and allows the reaction to sweep over him, a potent combination of anticipation and lust. Heat pools in his gut and lower down as he recalls the last time Douglas had used their secret code. Too long ago now. Martin has wanted it every trip since their last time, shortly before the near disaster in St. Petersburg, but for whatever reason - and Martin tries not to speculate about what the reason might be - Douglas hasn't wanted it again until today. 

"You coming, Skip?" Arthur says from the cockpit door. "I've got a _lot_ of hoovering to do." He heaves a sigh. "Those yacht buyers sure are a messy lot."

_Oh yes, I'm coming - and I could, too, here and now,_ Martin thinks, but says aloud, "Sorry, Arthur. I'll be out in a minute."

His usual fussy precision abandons him, and he's very glad that Douglas isn't there to observe his fumbling attempts to undo his harness, or how he trips over his own feet getting up, or knocks his hat off on the door frame not once but twice. It's not Douglas's satirical eye and sarcastic quips that Martin fears, however. What he fears is for Douglas to realise how badly Martin wants it. Wants him.

Arthur is hoovering madly as Martin walks down the cabin aisle. He looks perfectly content, his mouth pursed in a whistle, and Martin envies him his uncomplicated happiness. He isn't certain he's ever experienced such a state in his life thus far. Even when he's flying Gerti, he's painfully aware of his shortcomings, both literal and figurative. 

"Good night, Arthur," Martin shouts over the noise of the vacuum cleaner, and Arthur beams and shouts back, "Good night, Skip!"

Mr. Alyakhin's yacht buyers are long gone, whisked away to their 5-star resort perched above the Mediterranean. Caroline has gone to the Nice Côte d'Azur Airport office to take care of the business end of things. She and Arthur will find their own way to the very-much-not-a-5-star-resort-and-blocks-away-from-the-sea Hôtel New York, where Gerti's crew always stay when they make the Molokai to Antibes run. 

A taxi is pulling away from the kerb as Martin steps outside the airport terminal. He recognises the back of Douglas's silver-fox head through the window. His copilot is no doubt heading to a posh French restaurant with a view of Antibes harbour, where he will eat caviar and foie gras and other delicacies that are only words to Martin. Hunger claws at his belly, but not the sort that can be assuaged with food. He wants to be in that taxi with Douglas, surreptitiously touching him, light and teasing touches, just to see if he can fluster him, disturb the man's usual _sang froid_. He wants to sit across from Douglas at that restaurant, share an intimate candlelight dinner as a prelude to a night of passionate lovemaking.

The seventeen kilometres to Antibes seem to last forever. The ache between Martin's legs is matched by the ache in his heart. Damn, damn, damn. When this whatever-it-is that he and Douglas share first began, at a cheap hotel in New York City where they were forced to share a room and a bed - Caroline being in one of her stingier moods - it had seemed so simple. Fuck buddies letting off steam. Copilots with benefits. 

They hadn't spoken a single word when they woke in the middle of the night to find themselves intimately tangled together and both very obviously aroused. For two men so frequently at odds, this time they were completely on the same wave length. Douglas had gotten the necessary, rolled Martin over and taken him forcefully from behind. The only sounds in the room were the rhythmic squeak of the bed frame, Douglas's grunts and Martin's pleasured moans. When it was over, Martin lay in stunned silence in a cooling pool of his own come while Douglas disposed of the used condom, tossing it heedlessly into the closest wastebasket. Douglas turned onto his back, drew up the covers and fell fast asleep. Martin soon followed. The jumble of thoughts in his brain didn't seem to matter after a fuck like that. He was too blissed out to care.

_"Did Sir sleep well?" Douglas asked blandly, emerging from the shower with a skimpy white towel wrapped around his waist._

_"Like a baby," Martin replied, yawning and stretching luxuriantly, rather enjoying the residual twinges between his buttocks and the sex-smell that permeated the sticky sheets. He wanted to resent Douglas for once more proving his prowess at bloody_ every _thing, but under the circumstances, how could he?_

_"It does tend to have that effect, I find," replied Douglas, dropping the towel and retrieving a pair of navy silk boxers from his suitcase. "If Sir ever discovers himself in need of a good night's sleep again, I'm sure a similar remedy can be supplied."_

_"Oh?" Martin sat up, cautious but intrigued, and rested his elbows on his bony knees. "What do you have in mind? I don't want Caroline or Arthur to find out," he added sharply. "It's none of their business."_

_"They won't have to. My suggestion is that we use a code. If either of us in the mood to... scratch an itch, we simply say it to the other one."_

_Trust Douglas to have the answer. Martin wondered how many times he'd used this particular ploy in his past. "What do we say?"_

_Douglas pursed his lips. "How about 'last one to the hotel is a rotten egg'?"_

_Martin rolled his eyes but said, "All right. That seems innocuous enough." He threw back the sheet, striving for the same naked nonchalance that Douglas displayed, and got up. "I'm going to shower."_

_Douglas only nodded, barely seeming to notice Martin's nude body that he had so thoroughly ravished. "See you at breakfast, oh Captain my Captain."  
_

And that had been that. They had not discussed what happened then or later. For all intents and purposes it might never have occurred. In fact, Martin began to wonder if he'd imagined the entire improbable experience. Until, that is, a few weeks later when Douglas casually uttered the code as they were leaving Gerti, and Martin, with a thrill, realised that it had been entirely real and was about to happen again. The even greater thrill was knowing that Douglas had cracked first.

It was in many ways a carbon copy of the first time, except that each man had his own hotel room, so that Martin was forced to wait until he was certain there was no chance of running into either Caroline or Arthur in the hallway. Only then did he venture out in his bathrobe, feeling like a character in a Noel Coward play, and knock softly on Douglas's door. 

What happened next, and every time thereafter, was a breathtaking blur of hard-fast-fuck-me-blind sex, with Douglas firmly ensconced in the captain's seat. At any other time Martin would have protested and reminded his copilot who was in command, but in bed he willingly gave in to Douglas's expert handling - in fact, he revelled in doing so.

Once, Douglas took Martin right inside the door, barely waiting for it to close behind them before lifting Martin with an ease that belied his soft, languid appearance, pinning him ruthlessly against the varnished wood and pushing Martin's knees up over his shoulders. If asked his opinion before their strange liaison began, Martin would have said that Douglas was a master of self-control in bed, that he delighted in extended foreplay, but in fact nothing was further from the truth. Martin barely recognised his suave, indolent First Officer during their frantic couplings. Douglas was hungry, needy, almost desperate, and Martin was no less so. 

When it was over, they never cuddled or petted or whispered endearments. Martin rose, shrugged into his bathrobe and crept back to his own room. All without a word.

Far from minding the status quo, Martin prided himself on the manner in which he was handling this new adult relationship. Two men of the world they were, sharing a comradely fuck when they were at loose ends, able to set it aside and do their jobs without any complicating emotions getting in the way. 

Now, in the taxi, Martin wonders when that changed and complicating emotions entered the picture - for him at least. The answer comes immediately: after St. Petersburg. The bird strike and subsequent one-engine landing in a crosswind was the closest Gerti and her crew had yet come to true disaster. It was the sort of event that made a man take a good hard look at his life, accomplishments and future. So Martin did, and with a shock he discovered that his biggest regret wouldn't have been dying without becoming Captain of an airliner, but dying without telling Douglas that he loved him. He doesn't want to be a copilot with benefits any longer. He wants to be Douglas's full-time lover and partner.

He's totally fucked again but in a very different way, Martin concludes as the taxi pulls up in front of the Hôtel New York. He's very sure that Douglas doesn't return his feelings, but he's also very sure that he won't be able to keep his mouth shut while they have sex and it will all coming pouring out, every embarrassing, emo sentiment.

Martin checks into his room and contemplates going to find something to eat. But he has no appetite for food and he's tormented by a mental image of Douglas sitting at a candlelit table for two, and not alone. He wouldn't put it past Douglas to wine and dine some woman before scratching his itch with Martin. Every story Douglas has told him about his carefree youth and the endless succession of gorgeous stewardesses he's had comes back to haunt Martin. Does he seriously think he's any competition for them?

_You're pathetic,_ Martin scolds himself. _Douglas doesn't owe you anything but a good fuck._

It doesn't help. He changes out of his uniform, turns on the telly and stretches out on the bed. He tries to focus on the program that's being shown, but as it's in French, it's a losing battle. He turns to his trusty standby, the flight manual, but even that can't hold his attention. Eventually he drifts off to sleep, where he's plagued by a nightmare in which Douglas parades past him with a succession of beautiful women hanging on his arm, each of whom looks pityingly at Martin and says, "Last one to the hotel is a rotten egg," before bursting into derisive laughter.

A knock at the door wakes him. Groggily Martin sits up, glances at his watch that says 9:33 p.m. Probably Arthur, he thinks. "Just a tick," he calls. Still held in the lingering grasp of the nightmare, he gets up and stumbles to the door, uncertain if he's more relieved or annoyed by the interruption. A dose of Arthur's relentless cheeriness is not what the doctor ordered right now.

Martin undoes the safety chain, unlocks the door and pulls it open, saying, "Look, Arthur, I'm sorry but..." His voice trails off. It's not Arthur. 

"Ah Captain Crieff, your room service has arrived," says Douglas breezily, and pushes a large oblong dinner cart past Martin and into the center of the room. It's covered in a white linen tablecloth and set for two people, with a crystal vase holding a single red rosebud and a pair of white tapers in crystal holders standing in the center. Several dome-covered silver chafing dishes and an ice bucket with a bottle of champagne are arranged around them. 

"Douglas?" Martin blinks. He blinks again. No, he's not hallucinating. It is indeed Douglas, dressed to the nines in a black tuxedo with another red rosebud in his lapel. 

"I must say, Martin, you certainly haven't dressed for the occasion." Douglas shakes his head and tut-tuts under his breath as he strikes a match and lights the tapers. "Our first date, too. I'm disappointed."

"What?" Martin shuts the door and gropes backward until he reaches the bed. He sinks down on the edge of the mattress and puts a hand to his whirling head. "I - I don't understand."

"Don't you?" With one of those lightning changes of mood that characterise him, Douglas shakes out the match, drops it and strides swiftly to Martin. Looking more serious than Martin has ever seen him, he kneels and takes Martin's hands in his. They are warm and steady and strong. "Martin, do you honestly want to go on the way we have been?" he asks. "Be truthful."

"Copilots with benefits, you mean? No, I don't," Martin replies emphatically.

Douglas smiles a little at the description, but he says, "Neither do I. I never have. I admit I jumped at the opportunity when it presented itself, but it was never about scratching an itch. Not for me."

"Then what was it about?"

"Taking what I could get, which was more than I ever thought I would have of you." 

"But it's been weeks. I thought..."

"That I'd lost interest?" Douglas shakes his head. "Hardly. But after St. Petersburg I realised that I couldn't go on being a coward where you were concerned. Only," he shrugs, "it's not easy putting your heart on the line, especially when you're a three-time loser at love. It took a while to work up my nerve."

Martin is flabbergasted. "Douglas, are you saying...?"

"That I love you? That I want to wine and dine you and then take you to bed and make love to you slowly and very, very talkatively? Yes, I am." A hint of uncertainty, even vulnerability, creeps into Douglas's expression. "So, how does that sound to you?"

"It sounds," Martin suddenly understands what it must be like to be Arthur, " _brilliant_. But you're right, I'm not dressed for the occasion and I don't have a tux. Hell, I don't even have a suit."

"Sir _does_ have a uniform with an inordinate amount of gold braid," Douglas points out. "I'm prepared to be impressed by it - as long as I can remove it later, of course."

It's not easy to reply when his heart is so full, but the days of silence are over. "Sir would be _very_ disappointed if you didn't," Martin says.

~end~


End file.
